Writing - Mujica once said - is "listening to what life tells me about what it learns from itself beating in me." And that, something of that mystery that is to live, is what this poetic anthology offers us, gives us to listen. Honestly, where it is no longer about his life but about the unique one, that of each one and that of all.

Mystery of living towards which these poems beckon. Mystery of a transcendence, even of a mysticism, where the totally other is reality itself, freed from utilitarianism to which we submit it; of life when it recovers and offers its nascent dimension, its sprouting, its sacredness. Therefore, nothing more real, nothing more incarnate, than this poetry that does not try to supplant or explain what it names, but to show it, open it, make it feel. Neither further nor further here: in what each thing has of irreducible, in the only thing of itself, in its freedom.

Mujica naked the existence undressing the poetry, stripping it of any ornament, of any concession, of everything, except for the beauty of each thing in its nakedness. And he does it, he succeeds, stepping back, erasing his self, his authorship over words; going back to himself from who says and affirms who hears and responds to.

In this anthology, in the intimacy of this universe, poetry borders philosophy and prayer, without being neither one nor the other, nor ceasing to be: return, reintegrate, to its initial unit, returning to the poem its condition Original: when poetry was the voice of amazement at the miracle of feeling alive, when it vibrated between the abyss of being and that of not being, the abyss - we concluded with our author - of "the unbearable gratuitousness of existing."